


Elsewhere

by Gemmi999



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmi999/pseuds/Gemmi999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The tattoos are the obvious first thing he sees. Not that Frank is devoid of his ink, but there are less than there used to be. Bare patches of skin that had once been full of designs, scatterings of thoughts that Gerard had traced absently, drawn, sketched, memorized, known nearly as well as the back of his own hand. Others are brighter, fresher—they look like Frank got them the day before. </i></p><p>Note: I did not warn for major character death because, while the characters are technically dead, they are still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quarterturn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterturn/gifts).



> Note: Set in the fictional world of [_Elsewhere_](http://www.amazon.com/Elsewhere-Gabrielle-Zevin/dp/0312367465/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1325313648&sr=8-1) by Gabrielle Zevin.
> 
> Written for the Pop Off a Cork challenge in 2009.

When Gerard sees Frank again, he’s younger. Young enough for Gerard to wonder if his eyes were playing tricks on him, if he’d somehow woken up on the other side of the bed or in the wrong universe. The previous couple days had indicated that something was different but he’d kind of been hoping that it was all a hallucination. It wasn’t perfect—Gee really didn’t want to think that he’d turned back to drugs for any reason—but it is preferable to the truth.

Gerard looks at Frank surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out exactly what was going on because he remembers Frank’s funeral. He remembers carrying the casket, look inside and seeing the pale body of Frank resting. He remembers Jamia crying on his shoulder and Ray’s hand gripping his tightly, almost enough to cut off the circulation.

And now Gerard’s looking at a dock in the middle of nowhere and he’s on a cruise ship and he doesn’t understand what’s going on at all. He remembers waking up in the gently moving bunk a few days earlier and thinking he was back on tour again, which was weird enough, but then to see a port hole with an actual fucking ocean view and now to see this, to see Frank standing on a dock and looking calm and younger and healthier.

He wants to rush forward, run down the gang plank and throw himself into Frank’s arms and just let go, stop wondering and worrying about what’s going on and just let Frank take care of him and tell him everything is going to be okay. Let Frank be the strong one. He can’t yet, there’s a press of people exiting the boat, handfuls of tearful reunions on the dock, even more people looking around confused and unsure and scared.

Gerard wants to turn away, doesn’t want to see the eyes that mirror the pain his own hold; doesn’t want to see children crying for their parents and parents crying for their children. He can’t, though. Seeing Frank is holding him captive, Gerard’s eyes are greedily drinking in every detail, his fingers are itching to drag themselves over his skin and prove that it’s real. That this entire fucked up experience is real, that there really is some kind of afterlife and it somehow involves an island and a dock and cruise ship and it resembles a fucked up kind of reality.

The crowd of people press forward, guided by crew members of varying ages. A small boy, no bigger then Bandit—and that makes Gerard pause for a second, because he knows that Lindsey is still back there with Bandit and he isn’t—but it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected it to. He doesn’t know what that means, not yet, but he knows somehow that he’ll have all the time in the world to figure it out.

Eventually Gerard makes his way down the gang plank to where Frank is standing. “Kept me waiting long enough, you fucker.” Frank’s face is light, happiness and chocolate and coffee rolled together, everything that Gerard considered sacred in the world. He shrugs in response, looking at Frank carefully, trying to catalog what was different, what was missing.

The tattoos are the obvious first thing he sees. Not that Frank is devoid of his ink, but there are less than there used to be. Bare patches of skin that had once been full of designs, scatterings of thoughts that Gerard had traced absently, drawn, sketched, memorized, known nearly as well as the back of his own hand. Others are brighter, fresher—they look like Frank got them the day before.

“Yeah, it’s a bitch.” Frank comments to Gerard’s unasked question. “Hurt just as much coming off as they do going on.” And it’s abstract enough that Gerard shudders a bit, because needles—and Frank laughs because he knows what Gerard is thinking, always did.

They stand around silent for a minute, waiting as the crowds press away. Gerard taps his toe to the ground and looks at the different decorations, but he’s startled from his thoughts: “It’s good to see you.” Frank sounds hesitant. “I wish it wasn’t now, that you weren’t here, but it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Frankie.” Gerard breathes deeply, tries to keep the emotion out of his voice. “It’s been what—five years?” as if he doesn’t know that it’s really been 5 years, 4 months, 14 days. As if he doesn’t remember the frantic phone call from Jamia, the trip to the hospital, the weak wave that Frank gave when he entered the room and the diagnosis from the doctor, a young guy who Gerard doubted had even gone to medical school, let alone completed his residency.

“Fucker.” Frank flips him off. “Please, you know the hours,” and Gerard doesn’t deny it because he does, it’s instinctive. Not hard—there were only 24 hours in a day and he mastered counting that high in 1st grade.

“Yeah, well—your mom.” And the two laugh. And laugh. And laugh. The laughter covers the awkward moments: the questions, the denials, the confusion and anger and rage.

Sometime later Gerard stops laughing abruptly. His eyes are shadowed and his voice gravely as he asks: “Frankie, what exactly is this place?” and he gestures around. “I’m dead, right?” and he sounds broken up about it a little bit, but is he really dead? Does anyone really die because he’s here, with Frankie, and there’s a bright burning hot blistering sun and a gorgeous ocean view and out of the corner of his eye he sees a chocolate fudge shop. He was reasonably sure people didn’t have fudge in the afterlife.

Frank takes a second before he answers, and it doesn’t answer any more questions then it has to. “Welcome to Elsewhere.”

 

The walk to Frank’s home was a short, a curvy path not quite a road. When they passed people, Frank would smile and introduce Gerard, explaining that he had just arrived. Every time Frank explained this, Gerard felt a momentary pang, a second to realize that he had just arrived and didn’t know when he would be departing, didn’t know if he could depart. He didn’t know anything.

The house is small, a cottage, with barking dogs and a huge backyard that seems to go on for at least a tiny piece of forever. The couches are well used, covered in fur, sagging and worn. The kitchen is filled with bright colors—abstract murals decorate the walls, murals that Gerard thinks he would have painted once-upon-a-time, zombies and blood and violence that all seemed to celebrate life.

It feels like a home, a place where Gerard could lose himself and forget about the outside world. Forget about his problems, forget about the things he’s left behind and instead focus on what he’s gained. Focus on Frank.

They’re quiet that evening, the silence speaking volumes. Gerard is thinking about Lindsey and Bandit, about Mikey and Ray and Bob and everyone that he knows, everyone that thinks he’s dead and buried and never coming back. They don’t know about this place, about Elsewhere, and he wants to tell them. It’s itching under his skin, bursting to get out.

He wants to ask Frank why Frank didn’t tell them, why he’s waited patiently these past five years instead of figuring out a way to talk to them, communicate, let them know that he was alright. He doesn’t though, he sits in silence and looks around the messy house, looks at the life Frank has been collecting and something inside of him snaps, just a little.

Gerard’s up, walking towards the door before he even processed what is happening. Frank’s saying something, asking him where he’s going, but Gerard is silent. He walks outside and looks up at the moon, looks up at the sky and it looks the same as it did when he was alive, so a part of him wonders if he’s still on earth, still under the same constellations. If Bandit and Lindsey are looking up at the same sky, doing the same thing as him even though they’re separated by what has to be a thousand miles and a lifetime.

 

Time passes, seconds or minutes, Gerard couldn’t be sure. When he does come back to himself, become aware of his surroundings, he notices that Frank is standing next to him, but instead of looking at the sky he’s looking at Gerard.

 

“Why, Frankie.” Gerard asks. “Why didn’t you tell us you were okay?” Frank swallows audibly and begins to form an answer, but Gerard interrupts him. “Why didn’t you at least tell Jamia?”

Frank takes Gerard’s hand and begins to explain: “There are telescopes you can use, to look at the life you left behind.” Gerard nods at this. “It’s not recommended for the newly arrived, but I didn’t listen.”

Gerard wonders what that meant, if something bad had happened, but he doesn’t know how to ask any more. It’d been so long since he talked to Frank, talked with him about everything and nothing and he wants to ask, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but his voice abandons him.

“It wasn’t a good part of my time here,” Frank continues. “I began spending so much of my time watching Jamia and the dogs, watching you guys…” Frank’s voice trails off, as if he’s already given enough tiny pieces of himself away. Gerard gulps, understanding a little.

“You had to move on,” he finally says. Frank’s grip on his hand tightens.

“No. I had to accept.” He sounds firm on this, resolved. “I didn’t move on, I love you guys…” he sounds a little frustrated, as if he can’t find the words to explain exactly what he means.

“But you weren’t there, and we weren’t here.” Gerard whispers.

“Different times and places.” Frank agrees.

And that is as succinct an explanation as Gerard has heard. It doesn’t answer his questions, but he has space to figure the answers out for himself. He has the time and he has Frank, and they’re finally in the same time and the same place, and he thinks its enough, for now.

His palm is sweating against Frank’s skin, and he wants to shake his hand free and wipe it off on his pants, wants to give Frank the best parts of himself but when he tries Frank’s fingers cling a little bit harder and Gerard lets it rest. They stand there, looking at the sky, and for the first time since the entire journey started Gerard feels at peace. And he’ll make it be enough.


End file.
